Ren bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted his own blood. He was at a disadvantage, caught between his hatred and the pragmatic reality of their survival. If Cilian's wound became infected here, they would both die. And if the villagers grew suspicious, there were no guards to hide behind.
"Fine," Ren hissed, stepping forward into the cloud of steam. The heat hit his face, damp and heavy. "But don't you dare say a word. Not one."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Cilian murmured, though the triumph in his eyes said otherwise, and Ren scowled at him.
Ren reached out, his fingers brushing against Cilian's chest as he took over the task of unbuttoning the ruined shirt. The fabric was stiff with dried brine and blood. As the shirt fell away, Ren's breath hitched. The wound was in pretty bad shape. The stitches he had carefully placed days ago were shredded, the flesh raw and scrunching.
